Mohammed Hanif: Our Lady of Alice Bhatti

“Can we call him Little Yassoo while we think of a proper name and do the paperwork?” asks Alice.

“Is that a joke? Little Jesus? Does this world need another baby prophet? Do you want him to die young and single and misunderstood for eternity?”

“I had a neighbour who was called Jesus Bhatti,” says Alice. The car bumps over a speed breaker and the baby begins to cry.

“See, even he doesn’t like it. I think just Little is fine with me.”

Alice picks up Little from her lap, puts his head on her shoulder and presses him against her chest. His shaved head tickles her cheek. They travel in silence. Little falls asleep in Alice’s arms. She looks towards Hina Alvi and wonders if she should thank her for offering to put her and Little up, but then decides that it might be a bit early.

♦

Sister Hina Alvi opens the double lock on the door of her second-floor flat; the air inside is stale, as if trapped for a long time. Burgundy-coloured frayed velvet curtains are drawn, and even when Hina Alvi flicks on a light, the room stays semi-dark. She takes Alice Bhatti straight to a bedroom, as if she doesn’t want her to see the rest of the apartment. The bedroom is small but has a double bed on which Hina Alvi has already prepared a little nest for the baby, complete with a pink baby blanket and rows of plastic parrots on a mobile positioned over the pillow.

“Nestle formula is in the fridge, nappies in the cupboard. I am going to sleep for a while. If you need anything, just knock on my bedroom door,” says Hina Alvi before walking out of the room. Alice feels that Hina Alvi is already regretting her decision to invite her to stay.

As Hina Alvi shuts the door behind her, Alice sees a Bible Study Centre calendar from the year before hanging on the inside of it. This is probably her idea of making me feel at home, Alice thinks. Alice does feel at home and drifts off into a deep sleep with her hand on Little’s stomach. When she comes to, it takes her a while to orient herself. Little has wet his nappy; she changes it, cleans the drool on his face, comes out into the living area and goes straight to a window to draw the curtain.

“I don’t like to open the curtains. I have some really nosy neighbours.” Hina Alvi’s voice catches her by surprise.

Alice Bhatti looks back. It takes her a moment to locate Sister Hina Alvi, and when her eyes adjust to the darkness, she sees her kneeling in front of an open cupboard. First she thinks that Hina Alvi is looking for something in the cupboard, then she realises that she is still on her knees, hands folded at her chest, and she seems to be whispering something vaguely familiar. “Are you OK?” Alice asks. When she doesn’t get a response from Hina Alvi, she rushes towards her, suspecting that she has either pulled a muscle or is having a stroke. She stops when she is just behind her. In the cupboard, right in front of Hina Alvi, is an altar, a simple affair, plaster-of-Paris Yassoo figurine on a tin tray, some withered marigolds and a tea candle.

Alice Bhatti freezes; she feels as if she has walked in on a very private act, that she is witnessing something she is not supposed to, but she is afraid to move back now. Backtracking would mean that she had meant to spy on Hina Alvi, and now that she has discovered her secret, she wants to walk away with it. Next she does what she thinks is the only logical thing to do: she starts to go down on her knees behind Hina Alvi, but as soon as she bows her head and folds her hands, she hears Hina Alvi say, “… and the glory be yours, now and for ever”, more of a sigh than a prayer. Hina Alvi gets up, blows out the candle and shuts the cupboard. Alice Bhatti finds herself praying to a Formica panel.

“No reason to get excited. I am the same senior sister you have known all along,” Hina Alvi says, taking her dupatta off her head and sitting on a chair at the small round dining table.

“Do people at the hospital know?” Alice Bhatti is not excited, just flabbergasted. She has always felt ambivalent about faith-based camaraderie, she has never bought into we-are-all-His-sheep-type sentiments. In fact she feels a bit let down. Is Hina Alvi helping her because she considers her a sister in faith? What is Hina Alvi’s faith anyway? What kind of woman goes around insisting that everyone address her as Ms Alvi, a name only slightly less Musla than Muhammad, and then goes home and prays to a Yassoo hidden away in a wardrobe?

“What is there for them to know? Why do they need this knowledge?” Hina Alvi’s voice is low, as if she is talking to herself. “Will it improve the conditions in the hospital? Will it save somebody’s life?”

“It’s your personal choice and I know that you are not the first one. And who can blame people if they choose to hide their religion? All I am saying is that you have done a good job of it. I never suspected — ”

Alice Bhatti is cut off sharply by Hina Alvi. “What would you have suspected? Is this some kind of illness that a trained nurse like you should have detected?”

Alice Bhatti keeps quiet and desperately wishes that Little would wake up and start to cry so that she can get out of this awkward situation. She wants to be understanding, she is understanding, but she also knows that whatever she says will come across as some sort of inquisition.

“I slept with Mr Alvi. I was married to him, hence the name. I pray to Lord Yassoo because I was born a Christian.”

“You took his name?” Alice Bhatti asks in the hope that they’ll talk about her marriage. Maybe she’ll tell her something more about Mr Alvi. Why can’t they just be two colleagues talking about their bad marriages instead of suspecting each other of bad faith?

“What’s wrong with taking your husband’s name? Everyone does it. And if you think I should have gone back to my maiden name after my divorce, then you try changing your name on your ID card and see if you can do it in one lifetime.”

Alice Bhatti feels that this conversation has already gone too far. “Yes, I know. That’s why I never thought of changing my name. Do you want me to make some tea? Is there anything else around the house that I can help you with?”

“Oh, stop trying to be a considerate house guest. It’s so irritating. That’s why I never have people over. Either they are rude and want to be waited on and leave filthy cups and plates behind. Or there are others who just want to take over your house and rearrange the furniture.” Hina Alvi is staring at her as if trying to decide whether she can trust this girl with her kitchen or her life story.

“I am only trying to help,” Alice says and turns to go back to her room. She is already wondering how she can escape this place without offending Hina Alvi any further. She is also wondering who are worse: Catholics, or Catholics pretending to be not Catholics?

“Hannah. That was my name. Hannah,” Hina Alvi says, slightly lost, as if she has just remembered a word that she hasn’t used for a while.

“I guessed that much. Easy enough.”

“Massey. Hannah Massey.”

“Bishop Massey’s daughter?”

“You are quite naive, even for a Sacred nurse. No wonder the whole city thinks you are some sort of idiot-saint. Do you actually believe Bishop Massey’s daughter, any bishop’s daughter for that matter, would be slaving away at the Sacred? She can buy a hospital in Houston if she wants. Actually she runs a bed and breakfast in Houston.” Hina Alvi laughs. “Imagine. Madame Massey always had her breakfast served to her in her bed and now she runs a bed and breakfast. They are distant relatives but still very embarrassed at their poor cousin who went and married a Muslim. If I was a bishop’s daughter, I would probably not change my name either.”